


The Way the Cookie Crumbles

by moon_opals



Series: Looney Adventures in Duckburg [1]
Category: DuckTales (Cartoon 2017), Looney Tunes | Merrie Melodies
Genre: Duck Dads throw down in the supermarket parking lot, Family, Fist Fights, Gen, Humor, Parenthood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-07
Updated: 2018-05-07
Packaged: 2019-05-03 15:52:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14572395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moon_opals/pseuds/moon_opals
Summary: It was an unspoken rule within the Woodchucks to never, ever sell their annual popcorn bags on Chickadee cookies territory. Huey wisely adhered to this rule, preventing catastrophe year after year, but the JWG didn't tell him what to do when Chickadee ranks invaded Woodchuck popcorn territory.Fortunately for Huey, his Uncle Donald wasn't fond of rules in the first place.





	The Way the Cookie Crumbles

When Huey initially requested to join the Junior Woodchucks, Donald saw no problem. Although he’d been barred from ever joining -- something about his temper, the counselors said, he knew it was impossible to deny Huey something he truly wanted. Of his boys, Huey asked the least.

Besides, Donald reasoned, the Junior Woodchucks’ reputation was foremost the most reputable reputation in all of Duckburg. They went to the recreational center to sign the registration forms. He dragged the pen over the signature lines, pointedly ignoring the counselor’s wary stare. Huey bounced eagerly at his side, clutching the end of his shirt as they returned to the desk, and by the end of the day, Huey was a bonafide Junior Woodchuck.

This decision was one of Donald's best. His boys were resourceful in their unique ways, but there was something about the JW that set Huey apart. He’d always been responsible, energetic, and observant.

The JW cultivated those traits, honing them to perfection, and sharpening them to levels that made Donald’s head spin. Huey’s resourcefulness relieved Donald, but the questions around the houseboat tumbled his brain. _Did you know in 1895...Your great-grandfather founded the_ ….on and on, he went, but Donald didn’t have the heart to stop him.

Still, the Woodchucks was a good trade. Donald occasionally imagined what life would be like had he had a girl around the house, a little girl running up and down the halls, and shivered. She’d wear the traditional Chickadee uniform with its sash and multitudinous badges.

Worse, they'd have to sell cookies.

Coworkers, current and former, rushed around the city in search of potential buyers. Each wanted to sell more than the other. _And why?_ Fifty boxes sold won their little chickadee a Rockerduck Powerwheel Jeep. Seventy-five boxes won them a trip to the Glomgold Inc. Tour - contract applied. One hundred boxes won a trip to Ollie land and so forth.

From what Donald was told, the amount of cookies sold provided a substantial amount of prestige in the organization. Awards were given at the end of the year, made from actual gold.

“Gertie Greylag wanted little girls to be equally efficient to little boys,” one parent elaborated during a monetary exchange.

This was preceded by a no holds barreled brawl. Another parent smashed through a previous transaction attempt just as Donald was reaching for the peanut butter tagalogs. He saw the parent’s head make an almost perfect 90 degree turn, but they bounced back quickly, flattening their hands on the ground and reaching their legs around the attacker’s neck.

“Buy my little girl’s peanut butter tagalogs! They’re 20% sweeter!”

“Impossible! You can’t tamper with the boxes, and he was mine first!”

Donald wisely tossed the exact amount of cash on the battling parents and grabbed a box of peanut butter tagalogs. A crowd formed a tight ring around them, and he wanted to disappear before the cops rolled in.

He learned early on it was equally dangerous to buy a box of cookies despite being easier than selling it.

Schools held annual fundraisers, but they could never match the vindictive competitiveness that was Little Chickadee cookie sales held from January 1 to the middle of March.

The time period relieved Donald of any responsibility. When popcorn season started on March 12, he and Huey visited the local supermarket to set up shop with Huey’s troop. Their sales weren’t high, but the cash intake was accept for Junior Woodchucks.

Separating the seasons and operating on a different item circumvented any potential clashes that could arise from the long standing rivalry between Woodchuck and Chickadee.

Their experience proved the system efficient.

* * *

 “Where do you want to set up the table, Troop Leader Wolff?”

“Ah. Put it near the doors, but not in front of the doors.” A jovial, black wolf, Robert “Bob” Wolff grabbed the table cloths, “And set out the flavor display. We want them to know their options.”

Donald rolled into the parking lot with healthy drinks and snacks. He’d done this for six years now, and each year was better than the last. Saturday was the best day to sell popcorn.

The day of relaxation and errand running; adults rarely snapped at the children for their children hungered for tasty caramel corn, kettle corn, unbelievable butter corn, and the ever popular dark and white chocolate drizzle. The boys stacked the bags and display on the table, taking their seats behind them, and chattered amongst themselves.

“We can get maybe twenty bags, 22 tops.”

“I was hoping for thirty.”

Huey drummed his fingers on the table, “I think we may get 25. We may not earn our Life of a Salesman badge, but we won’t have to worry about not getting recognized for our efforts.”

Water precipitated on the ice chests propped along the supermarket wall with sandwiches and beverages stuffed inside. Donald was wiping his forehead when he saw the minivan zoom into the parking lot. A shiny cultured shade, its screeching stop grabbed everyone’s attention.

A carmine pump stepped out of the car door, and a voice unlike any other rang sharply, “Hurry girls! We don’t have all day. Set up over there, go, go.”

Donald’s visual acuity of 20/10 and higher was required to dissect the flurry of sandaled and tennis-shoe clad feet. Girls marched out of the minivan on all sides. In their hands were oversized paper brown bags they lifted without strain while the woman click-clacked to the trunk. A table and its cloth she stuffed underneath her arm and toted around until she found the spot she wanted -- the right side of the automatic doors to their left.

The girls huddled the brown bags behind the able as the woman set the table cloth on the table. Bright, orange lilies decorated the grassy green backdrop of the cloth. She pulled display after display onto the table, reaching quickly to snatch another out of the bag closest to her.

Cookie boxes followed and were arranged in punctilious formation; thin mints at the top, samoa/caramel delites and peanut butter patties/tagalongs in the middle, and do-si-do/peanut butter sandwiches and shortbread trefoils were the foundation. She did the same with the less popular flavors on the other side of the table; assuming someone would be interested for an oddity or two, preferably five.

As this storm descended upon them, Donald watched in ominous silence. There was something familiar about the woman; something he could not pinpoint his finger on. Was it her blond hair? _No._ Or her black feathers? _No._ Her distinct lisp; pronounced with every dribble of spit that splattered off her tongue struck him familiarly.

Folded chairs were unfolded, and metal scratching on concrete grated their ears. Be it familiar or strangely coincidental, they knew what was about to come.

“Right after twelve, good work!” She snapped her fingers, “And you said we wouldn’t make it.”

A grey rabbit whose brunette hair was plaited with lavender ribbons spoke, “You were driving three times the speed limit.”

“Yes, but we arrived before twelve.”

“Dad isn’t gonna be happy if you get another speeding ticket.”

“He won’t know that I’ve gotten one.” She glared at the girls, “And don’t tell your parents.”

The violet tinted skunk step forward, “Troop Leader you said we could get some snacks.” The woman gasped lightly and fished through her clutch purse, revealing a twinkling platinum credit card.

“Does Dad know you have that?”

“I was given strict instructions to use this card for your benefit, little miss.” She gave the skunk the card, “Get healthy snacks, y’hear me? We may be selling cookies, but we don’t need to raise our blood sugar levels.”

The grey rabbit stared at him, shook her head, and followed the girls into the supermarket, “You really are something.”

“And you’re wasting time, dearie.”

With a frown, she walked backward, revealing a brown wallet she held in her hand. The woman gasped as the girl giggled, running after her friends as the automatic doors closed, reflecting her cheeky expression.

“You’re despicable.” She gritted her teeth, “You are despicable, Babs Bunny,” as an afterthought, “and don’t forget to get my bottled tea!”

Holding a second ice cooler, he observed the woman. Her blonde hair - no, synthetic, a wig, brushed softly against the wind. Black feather glistened under the sun, indicating a special oil moisturizer product. He glanced at Huey’s white feathers. He winced. Light reflected and bounced straight into his eyes. Stepping back, he shield his eyes to see where the line formed and spotted her neck.

What he thought was the traditional white neck line of the American black duck was something brighter, more expensive than he originally thought. A pearl necklace.

“What would the girls do without me?” She contemplated aloud, accent thick with a well articulated lisp, “I need to make sure we sell enough to beat that loud mouth chicken.”

 _No._ Donald’s chest palpitated. _No._ What did it matter that the extremely low chances were adjacent to impossibility? They were adjacent, not actually impossible.

It was the lisp. Donald hadn’t pushed it back as much as he allowed it to slip away. It’d been a relic of a former life, set aside for something more. He refused to believe the truth in the moment. There was a brief span of absolute nothingness in Donald’s brain before he started to move, started to open his mouth, and questions were spat out with demands trailing quickly behind.

Huey shouted his name in confusion. Wolff tried to pull his arm. One was too quiet, and the other, too slow.

She - _he_ raised his head, and his brow arched contemplatively. Defiance crossed over his expression and chest; his high heel pump tapped impatiently.

Donald stood in front him with clenched fists, having abandoned the ice cooler near the table, and gritted his teeth.

“Daffy Duck.”

“You have grey feathers.”

Donald bristled, “What are you doing here?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” Spittle popped off his bill, “We’re selling cookies.”

“This is our turf.”

“Your turf?” Daffy scoffed, “This is the Duckburg Supermarket. It is open to all Chickadee and Woodchucks, as long as the required paperwork is signed, and bad for you, I have my sales permit!”

His bill twitched, “We were here first!”

“So?” Daffy straightened one of the displays, and waved flirtatiously at an approaching couple, “Our Chickadee cookies are absolutely delectable. They won’t crack your teeth like those popcorn kernels.”

“You can shove your cookies right up your -,”

“Uncle Donald?”

Spinning around Huey’s pensive expression locked him. He searched from one bill to the other, unasked questions ready to shoot at him, and Donald gulped. Daffy clicked his tongue and returned to the table.

At a loss for words, the question hung precariously between them. Donald thought of what he could say, of what was suitable for a twelve year old boy. He readied the response, whatever its content, when the automatic doors slid open.

“This...this person...is...an…”

“Daffy, we’ve talked about this.”

The grey rabbit and other girls came behind. She dropped the bag of bananas, apples, kiwis, and cans of coconut milk on the table; crossing her arms, she glared irritably at them, “Dad said if you get us banned from another supermarket you’ll be taken off as troop leader.”

Daffy’s arrogance dwindled briefly, “Children are meant to be seen, not heard!”

“We’re selling cookies. We’re gonna have to talk and be seen.”

Noticing their presence, the girl offered her hand to Donald and Huey.

“Sorry, my name’s Babs Bunny.” She glanced at Daffy, “And this is our troop leader.”

Huey gripped her hand back, “Um, aren’t there male troop leaders?”

“Listen kid, when you look me, you want to look your absolute best.” He popped a heel up, “And I like the height the heels give me.”

Donald’s glare dissipated at Babs, “So, you’re here to sell cookies?”

“Yeah.” She sighed, “We got banned from Acme Acres Supermarket,” she cut Daffy’s gasp off with a sharp glare, “we thought we could sell a little in Duckburg, but we forgot popcorn season started today.”

“You don’t have to leave.”

“We don’t?”

Huey shook his head, “We don’t have a lot of bags in the first place, and this is a great hour to sell.”

“Wait, like, you guys have popcorn?” A blond-haired loon pushed through, “Like actual popcorn, please tell me you’ve got chocolatey caramel crunch!”

“Shirley!”

“Like Daffy, it isn’t for me. Pops and Grams love ‘em!” She pulled out a twenty, “I’ll take four bags.”

“Four?”

“Come on, like two bags would keep ‘em happy.” She rolled her eyes and ran to the table where Troop Leader Wolff and the others applauded their first customer of the day.

“Do you think they have the cheese flavor collection?”

“Yeah, we set up a few minutes ago.”

“ _Merci beaucoup, beau canard!_ ” Hugging him fiercely, the violet skunk raced after Shirley, and was soon followed by the rest, having finished their preparations. Dollar bills and change jingled in their pockets.

“You’re telling me you could’ve bought your own snacks?” Daffy said, “Why did we have to use the card?”

“Because none of us wanted to spend our money on things we knew Dad was gonna buy us, plus, we knew you’d sneak the card.”

Daffy glared and watched as Babs walked to the table.

“So, Huey, do you have classic caramel and unbelievable butter?”

“And who are you buying for?”

“Dad and Buster love unbelievable butter.”

“Oh, right.” His shoulders shot, “And don’t forget my classic caramel!”

“Sure, Daffy.” She smiled at Huey, “I’d like to see your order arrangement.”

“Really?”

“Yeah! The organization is so specific. It’d really help.”

Like their friends, they too went to the table, leaving the adults to themselves.

“I destroyed the dairy aisle.”

“Wait, what?”

Daffy sniffed, shrugging his shoulders, “And the bread aisle, and the fruits, vegetables, yeah, I destroyed 70% of the supermarket.”

“How?” This was Daffy. This was the little, black duck who refused to follow social norms and other rules of propriety, “I know I’m going to regret asking this, but how?”

Crossing his arms, he looked away, “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“You got into a fight with another parent, didn’t you?”

“No one insults my sweet, darling Babs.” He glanced where she and Huey munched on popcorn, “She’s the light of my life.”

“Doesn’t she have a brother?”

“Buster is my joy. Babs is my pride,” he clarified.

“Wait, I thought she was the light?”

“That’s what I said, my light and joy.”

“Buster is your joy.”

“Who asked you?”

Donald’s eye twitched, and on the right side of his head a headache started to throb.

The last time they’d seen each other, Donald succeeded in destroying Daffy’s white grand piano. In retaliation, Daffy smeared what Donald wanted to believe was mud across his piano keys, as well as booby-trapping the lid.

His fury knew no bounds.

Daffy’s laugh followed him right to the enlistment office.

“Uncle Donald?” Huey ran to them, “Hey, Uncle Donald!”

“Huh, yeah?”

“The Woodchucks and I discussed it.” He beamed brightly at him, “Troop Leader Wolff said we could buy some of the Chickadee cookies.”

“I want ten boxes of Do-si-dos!” Troop Leader Wolff opened his wallet, “And five thin mints, my husband loves ‘em.”

Daffy’s and Donald’s tense glares didn’t go unnoticed.

* * *

The long-standing feud between Chickadee and Woodchuck was longstanding. Huey researched the subject vigilantly, spending late hours at the local library when the official Woodchuck archives failed to offer the information he sought. Clinton Coot and Gertie Greylag were close friends, having grown up as next door neighbors, and chose to nurture a healthy relationship between Woodchuck and Chickadee.

Huey theorized the rivalry started after Greylag’s death, ten months after Coot’s, where the grieving members lashed out at each other. It was only then did their healthy, friendly relationship began to weaken.

His research didn’t produce any instances of disaster on one side or another. The rivalry was nothing more than a myth, but this didn’t stop the higher ups for making the tactful decision to maintain a respectable distance during cookie season.

Having purchased four boxes of Chickadee smores, Huey sat along the wall, breaking his personal vow to not snack before his proper lunch.

“What’s Daffy? Your dad’s roommate?” Marshmallow, chocolate, and graham-cracker was mushed together in crunchy delight, Huey stared at Uncle Donald and Daffy, engrossed in unstimulating conversation, “He really knows how to walk in those heels.”

“He’s more than my dad’s roommate.” She sipped her strawberry soda, “He’s my dad’s boyfriend.”

“Boyfriend? You said he has a girlfriend.”

“He does.” Babs grinned, “He has a boyfriend and a girlfriend.”

“How does it work?”

“It’s simple.” She leaned on the wall and let the soda take hold, “Dad goes out with Lola every now and then, she sleeps over. Daffy goes out with Tina every now and then, and sometimes,  he stays at her apartment. But we have family dinner, and Dad and Daffy sleep together sometimes.”

All new and different, Huey looked at her as if he couldn’t believe what she was telling him, but she spoke with such normalcy that he couldn’t think of doubting her.

“How’d they meet?”

She shrugged, “The post office. It’s been six years now, and I like it. Buster was already living with us, so it was like we found the last piece to the puzzle...or the last piece found us,” she chuckled, “he said he was crashing but just ended up mooching off Dad. But it’s nice. Dad loves him, and I know he loves us.”

Huey bit into another smore, “Uncle Donald hasn’t dated. I don’t think he’s ever dated.”

“Aw, well, I thought the same about Dad, but he and Mom got along enough to make me.”

“How?”

“They weren't married.” Babs explained, “I think they grew up in the same Brooklyn neighborhood.”

“Do you get to see your mom often?”

“She’s a flight attendant, but she sends us tons of souvenirs and photos.” She showed him her phone, “She passed over Ithaquack.”

He checked the photo and grimaced, “Yeah, that’s Zeus.”

“You’ve met him?”

“My family visited Ithaquack,” visited being a loose term.  “We met Zeus and Storkules.”

“Is he as big of a jerk as he is in the myths?”

“Yep, pretty much. Uncle Scrooge beat him at every competition, but then we beat Storkules, who’s my uncle’s best friend.”

Huey stared back at Donald and Daffy. They didn’t appear angry anymore although Uncle Donald’s fists were still partially clenched, and Mr. Daffy’s arms were still crossed against his nonexistent bosom.

“I think they know each other,” Babs said.

“I think so too.”

She slid her phone into her back pocket, “Daffy used to play piano at the Ink & Paint Club.”

“What’s the Ink & Paint Club?”

“I dunno. Dad gave him _the_ look, so he didn’t tell me the rest.”

Huey pulled back, staring at Uncle Donald and Daffy. Irritation tip toed around their bills and the corner of their eyes, and Huey dug for his JWG.

“Huh. Always wanted to see one up close.” Babs got out her LCG, “It’s dense material, ain’t it?”

He flipped through the pages, “Right here,” tapping under the bold print, “the Ink & Paint Club is a legendary Hollywood nightclub known for its numerous celebrity patrons and famous, occasionally infamous performances.”

“One of the most infamous performances was Looney Sailing Piano Duel.” Babs read the article in her LCG, “Known for its merrie melodies these piano duels were regularly performed with vulgar violence and obscenity. The last act resulted in both performers being hooked off the stage, which was how all performances ended.”

“It doesn’t identify the performers.”

Babs shrugged, “Daffy can be obscenely violent, and stupid. He didn’t mention a partner though.”

“The JWG says the last performance included,” reading on he twitched in disgust, “a booby-trapped upright piano. One of the performers was thrown under a grand piano lid, with the top smashing down on them.”

“Both performers were dragged off stage after the booby-trapped piano exploded, destroying the stage, but leaving the audience roaring with applause.”

“It sounds crazy,” Huey closed the book.

“It sounds fun.” Babs wondered aloud, “I don’t see why Dad cut Daffy off.”

_"Mr. Duck!”_

Mr. Duck, the black feathered one, clutched the underside of his bill in pain. He’d fallen backwards. His precious pumps clicked and snapped in two on the way down. He didn’t stare up at Mr. Duck, the white feathered one, in shock or even disappointment. A slow, wicked curve took hold of his bill, and he sneered, twisting his delicate hands into fists.

“You do know this means war,” he spat.

“Bring it, bub.”

Mr. Duck, the black feathered one, wrapped his hand firmly around Mr. Duck’s throat, and threw him to the ground, punching him right in the eye. The white feathered Mr. Duck shouted in pain, clutched his wounded eye, and rolled on the ground as they scuffle progressed.

“Oh no,” Babs stood and whistled, “come on girls, you know the routine!”

“Wait, Babs!”

But the girls knew what to do, grabbing the tables and bags, they ran to the minivan and tossed them inside. Mr. Wolff ran to separate them, but they were too fast, too strong for the hot-headed ducks. A small crowd formed around the fighting drakes, and Babs ran back, hissing at Huey.

“Take off your badges and hat!”

“But why?”

“Ya’ want those people to know it’s a Woodchuck - Chickadee brawl?” Glaring at him as if it was the most obvious thing, she ran to the tussling ducks holding a small device in her right hand.

Huey was about to ask what she was doing when Shirley threw him a pair of ear plugs. She motioned quickly for him to put them in, and he did without question. He was about to ask what she was doing when she blew into the whistle, and the most annoying, screeching sound came out.

But Huey was deaf to this sound. He watched as Donald and Daffy clutched their ears in pain, curling on the pavement, and the observers who were also ducks ran off in shock and horror.

“Sufferin’ succotash!”

“Turn it off! Turn it off!”

Her breath carried for thirty seconds. Lowering the whistle, she glared and pointed to the minivan, “Get. In. The. Van. Now.”

“But -,”

“I said now!”

Mr. Duck looked back at Mr. Duck and saw the amazed, amused stares beholding them. He grabbed his broken pumps and scurried to the minivan. Huey didn’t get to say goodbye or even wave goodbye before the minivan burnt rubber out of the parking lot, and out of the city.

“Uncle Donald?”

He lied on his back, arm covering his eye, “Yeah, Huey?”

“Are you...are you okay?” He moved Uncle Donald’s arm and winced.

“That bad?”

“No, no.” The crowd started to disperse, suddenly bored with the weak conclusion, “You may want to put a steak on that eye though.”

Donald groaned, covering his darkened eye again.

* * *

The drive back to the mansion was uneventful. Fortunately, the authorities were not notified, and the Woodchucks grabbed their belongings and returned home. Troop Leader Wolff was amazed. He’d heard of Donald Duck’s temper, but hadn’t experienced the full length of it. As he said, as long as no actual harm was done, there was no need to worry.

“Let's not make a repeat of this, okay, Donald?”

“Sure, pal.”

The drive back to the mansion was uneventful. Huey replayed each event in his head, trying to spot the actual moment his uncle’s anger was ignited, but the more he replayed, the harder it became. The second Mr. Duck appeared something was off about Uncle Donald. He didn’t restrain his obvious dislike for the man; it was impossible for him to completely conceal his dislike for him. Huey liked to think he had given it a try for his sake.

He sighed.

“Sorry.”

“Huh?”

Uncle Donald gazed into the rearview mirror, “I’m sorry for ruining the popcorn sale.”

“You didn’t ruin anything, Uncle Donald.”

He gave him a look.

Huey laughed, “No seriously, you didn’t. Some folks bought the last of the popcorn to watch the fight, so you helped us out.”

“Great.”

An uncomfortable silence ensued. Huey fidgeted in the backseat. Along with the fight, the Ink & Paint Club cropped in his head. His uncle didn’t discuss much about himself. Huey knew better to ask a direct question about his uncle’s past. He might not have looked the part, but Donald Duck was notorious for evading difficult questions.

But still, Huey knew he had to try.

“Did you know Mr. Duck used to play piano?”

“Huh, you don’t say.”

“Babs talked about him.” He drummed his fingers on the faded cushion, “He’s her dad’s boyfriend, and he used to work at this club he told her about.”

“Oh did he now?”

“Yeah, he didn’t tell her too much, but she said it was the Ink & Paint Club.”

He made a right. His grip tightened around the wheel, “Ink & Paint Club, never heard of it.”

Huey swallowed his gasp. Uncle Donald never lied, except for the time he told them about the potty fairy; Huey knew what his uncle did with their waste. He was horrified.

It wasn’t his place to ask. Although his uncle’s tone didn’t end the discussion, Huey sensed this was the end, and he looked through the window as they drew near to the manor.

He wasn’t upset. Just a little disappointed.

It was then his gaze flickered to the ice cooler, and widened.

A relieved smile punctured his disappointment.

* * *

Louie was elated to have his phone returned to him. He asked no questions when his brother went upstairs to wash up for dinner, ready to resume Ottomon’s Empire season two. He didn’t check the contacts, the call log, or even the browsing history. Of his brothers, Huey was the one he didn’t have to worry over. His phone was returned perfectly intact, no cracks or smudges; it even smelled of fresh wildflowers.

Lounging in the home theater with Dewey and Webby, he flicked through the channels as the other two discussed some unsolved mystery they were determined to crack. Ottomon’s Empire season two was an improvement of season one, though it’d taken him days to appreciate it.

“Okay, if we go down hill towards the lake we may be able to fish out the artifact.”

“Didn’t Uncle Scrooge say the lake was guarded by a mystical beast?”

“Why yes, Dewey, it is, but I found a magical mirror in the room of mysteries.”

“You mean the garage?”

“Yes, I mean the garage.”

Louie rolled his eyes, “There’s a million rooms in this place. Can’t you have adventure sibs somewhere else.”

“We wanted you to be a part of it.”

“And since you won’t leave until you’ve binged watched the entire season, we decided to stay here until the meeting is adjourned.”

“Huey isn’t here.” Louie groaned and increased the volume, “I’d say he was lucky to go on his JW camping trip this weekend.”

Perhaps, this was the trigger he needed for his phone vibrated on the cushion next to him. Picking it up, the indicator replied he received a new text message.

Sipping his Pep can, he tapped the screen, and his carbohydrate drink lodged uncomfortably in his throat.

Dewey and Webby stared in confusion as he sputtered and coughed, spitting Pep left and right.

“Dude, gross! Beakley just mopped.”

He coughed, patting his chest, “Muygh phooey.”

“My phooey?” Webby looked at Dewey, “What’s a my phooey?”

“No!” Louie snapped, throat cleared, “I meant my phone! I got a weird message!”

Louie didn’t receive weird messages, and during the rare occasion someone sent a text to the wrong number, Uncle Donald swiftly removed it.

But there was nothing weird about this message. Surprising as it was, Louie didn’t feel uncomfortable. Dewey and Webby leaned over his shoulders and chuckled weakly.

“Wait, is that Uncle Donald?

_Look at what I found in Daffy’s closet! He totally did work there, and they were partners! Don’t tell ‘em I snuck in. ;)_

Within the message was an old, black and white photo. On the right of the photo was a little black duck playing a white upright piano. On the left was their Uncle donald dressed in a black tuxedo playing a black, grand piano. The little black duck wore a cheeky grin dipped in looney mischievousness. Uncle Donald wore an angry, temperamental glare on his face; its temper was directed at the little black duck.

“Who is this!?”

“It’s signed, Babs B.” Webby read, “Didn’t Huey use your phone a few weeks ago?”

“He did.” Louie tapped the photo to enlarge it, “But why is this girl sending us - _him_ a photo of Uncle Donald.”

Dewey pointed to the black duck, “This must be Daffy.”

A multitude of thoughts scurried back and forth through Louie’s mind. Of the many he had latched onto one and only one, and it was the discovery his responsible, ever cautious, ever reasonable brother was capable of the same cruder mannerism as the rest of them. He was speechless.

“Look guys, she’s sending another.”

Another message popped on the screen, Louie tapped it. He winced.

_And thanks, dude! We made first place!_

Young girls dressed in Chickadee uniforms circled around a great, gold trophy, their faces alight with victory and triumph. Beside them their troop leader, a lean black dack whose platinum blond hair shined through the picture stood nearby, smugly glaring into the camera

Dewey turned his head crookedly at the screen, “Hey, is that lady a dude?”

“I don’t know, but if he is, those heels give him great height.”

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to see a duck dad fight, and by George, I was going to get it.


End file.
